


Musically Drunk

by rockinellie



Category: Monster High
Genre: Drunkenness, Silly, operetta's singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinellie/pseuds/rockinellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Operetta isn't sure if this is regular normie behavior or what, but Jackson is acting really weird. A one-shot silly fanfic about Jackson being a goofy "Drunk". No actual drinking. Suggested Operetta/Holt past relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musically Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Don't drink if you're underage kids!
> 
> Anyway, there's no drinking in this haha. Thought this was a silly idea and ran with it.

As always the catacombs were a dank, dark place. Just how Operetta liked it, alone and quiet with only herself for company. There was nothing in this world like hearing her strong vocals bouncing off the ceiling and back down. Truly, she loved nothing like she loved her beautiful catacombs-nothing but perhaps her music. There was the added bonus that nobody ever bothered her, not because she was friendless but because she worked on songs down there. Everybody knew that she, daughter of THE Phantom of the Opera had a voice that worked like magic on everyone. Even the DJ had been caught in the cross-fire of her magical music before, and if Holt couldn’t handle it nobody could. So they stayed away and when she wanted to be among her peers she’d go up to see everyone herself. 

In any case there was no reason for her to believe, not even for one moment, that anyone would be stupid enough to interrupt her down here. It was to her honest surprise when there was a loud sort of crashing noise on the stairs towards her work room, followed by smaller slamming noises. Mid-song she snapped her mouth shut and swung her legs down from where they’d been propped up. She half-ran to see what in carnation was going on, peering around the corner skeptically. Honestly she should have figured as much as she saw. Only one person in school didn’t quite keep up with the rules that weren’t written down, and he was lying at the bottom of the steps. Sighing, Operetta kneeled beside the poor normie, looking him over. Well, he didn’t /look/ broken.

Jackson was a special case. He was a Jekyll/Hyde monster, as in he was half normie, and half monster. His monster side, the aforementioned DJ, was a real party animal. The normie side was less than stellar in anything that wasn’t academia. So it was no surprise that he had either forgotten or not known that Operetta practiced deep within the catacombs, and no doubt he was here trying to hide from a bully or two. Or Heath, which Operetta wouldn’t blame him for avoiding. For now, his glasses were tossed from his face, and his cheek was firmly on the stone flooring.

“Hon?” Operetta asked, her southern drawl echoing in the hall. “You alright, sugar plum?”

Jackson groaned when her purple, tattooed hand touched his forehead. “Wh-where am I?” He sat up with the help of Operetta, who looked him over before leaving him sitting to go get his glasses from a few feet away. 

“Catacombs.” She handed the glasses to him, but he missed, swiping the air a little ways off. He laughed, and she pursed her lips. “Hey, hon, you alright?”

“I guess so!” He laughed, touching his head, “Did I fall down? Why am I on the floor?” He tried to stand up, but he seemed unsteady, and he stumbled forward. Operetta caught him in her arms, looking alarmed. “Thanks!” He chirped, smiling brightly at her, “Hey, you’re real pretty, no wonder Holt asked you out! You must love muuusic.” Jackson’s hand reached up to touch her cheek.

Operetta was concerned. “Hon, you must have hit your head a whole lotta more than I thought you did.” She let him touch her cheeks, giggling to himself about…well, she missed whatever it was that he was laughing about now. She moved towards the steps, but he was too unsteady, and kept pulling on her, dragging her this way and that with his unsteady walking. “Can’t you walk a straight line, Jackson? I’m tryna help but I don’t want to deal with all this nonsense!”

“I don’t know,” Jackson said seriously, his smile disappearing as he looked at her, wide-eyed. “I can’t remember. Can I walk okay? Is it good? Can I walk straight?”

They looked at each other in silence, Operetta trying to decipher his questions, and then he was giggling again. Jackson leaned his head on her shoulder, smiling up at her and asking if she dyed her hair or if it grew in ‘cool’ like that. Well, that was enough for her, and she dropped him. He hit the stones like a sack of bricks, but to her relief he only laughed lightly. She tucked his glasses on her belt and moved for the stairs, determined to bring someone /else/ to come deal with the mess. One step up she heard him talking again. Almost ignoring him in her haste she just managed to make out: “do it myself” followed by the sounds of him running. Alarmed, she swirled on the stairs, and watched in silent horror as the unsteady boy ran right for the edge of the room. The Monster High catacombs ran deep, and her music room was on the edge of a steep, steep drop. 

Right as his blue sneaker reached the edge, he felt someone grab his shirt, and he went flying back. Operetta stood over him, frowning, and he smiled up at her. “You ‘kay, Oppie?”

“Do not-hon, you coulda died. You ain’t all monster, sweetie, you don’t got any powers, ‘kay?” Operetta rubbed her forehead, then grabbed his shirt, pulling him along the floor to the next room over. She dragged the cheerful boy to her organ, and leaned him against the side of it, patting his head before she rummaged through a box marked ‘Dad’. She dragged a length of rope from the box, and secured Jackson to the organ.

Jackson didn’t seem to mind, until she stood back to make sure he was secure. It was then that he realized he was restrained, and he whined, clawing at the rope. Much to Operetta’s delight the rope stood up to his mindless clawing. He flinched when she kneeled in front of him again, and she was surprised to see his eyes welling up with tears.

“Aw, sugar pie, why are you so full of tears? Ain’t nothing bad happening, just gotta make sure you won’t get hurt while I get someone more well-versed in Normie behavior, okay?” Operetta smiled at him, patting his shoulder, “So…stay.” 

“Don’t leave me!” Jackson cried, trying to follow her, tugging the rope taut as he did so. “I hate-Organs.”

“Organs?”

Jackson made a whimpering noise, nodding, but Operetta didn’t budge, and only walked up the stairs calling back something he couldn’t make out.

 

Frankie, Cleo, Ghoulia, and Clawdeen were sitting around a creepateria table when Operetta found them. They had magazines spread out on the tabletop and were pointing and talking loudly over each other. Operetta’s sensitive hearing was overwhelming her senses, but she slowly counted and focused before approaching the ghouls. 

“Oh! Hi Operetta!” Frankie cried, waving cheerily, “How’s your latest song going?”

Operetta smiled when Frankie’s greeting quieted the others chatter. “Good, I think. Hey, how familiar are you with normies?”

“I love normies!” Frankie squealed, eyes lighting up, “I own tons of magazines about them and don’t forget I helped bring back Halloween for what it was meant to be! Normie-Monster appreciation holiday and all that!” 

“Er, yeah, I meant like, health-wise.” 

“Why, you keepin’ a normie pet downstairs or somethin’ now?” Clawdeen asked, her thick Brooklyn accent cutting through any remaining noise. Her accent was Operetta’s favorite, it had rich undertones that made her believe Clawdeen would be able to sing wonderfully well.

“Oh, that's barbaric! Everyone knows normies don't complement any outfits. You should get a gorgon, they go with everything darling." Cleo put in, laughing lightly.

Operetta cut through Ghoulia’s moaning response, “I’m not keepin’ no normie pets, gouls. I’ve got Jackson tied up cause he’s actin’ like he’s got a screw loose-“

“You’ve got him /tied up/?!” Frankie’s cry was the only one Operetta picked up before the voices all washed over her at once, overwhelming her. She couldn’t make anything out, it was just noise, grating her skin, hurting her ears, frustrating her. Operetta’s eyes focused on Frankie’s, and slowly, slowly she focused on one word: tied. Finding the word to focus on helped. She closed her eyes, imaging the letter ‘t’ in front of her, then each subsequent letter slowly, slowly, until the noise became bearable. Taking a breath her eyes opened and the voices kept their distance, though they were all washing towards her. The ghouls were standing, angry, upset, and kind of confused.

Operetta held her hands up, and after a moment they all stopped to listen. “I’m tellin’ ya’ll, it ain’t for fun okay? I’m not…I don’t even know what ya’ll are suggestin’-and no, hon, I don’t wanna know. I’m tellin’ you ‘cause I need help. He’s actin’ real weird and I’m concerned. Now, please.” She gestured for them to follow her, and Frankie nearly knocked her chair over in her haste to catch up. 

“Those are his glasses,” Frankie said, pointing, and Operetta looked down at her belt. “Can I have those?”

“Sure, hon, you can give them to him, I don’t care who does what so long as you lot get him /out/.” 

Frankie took the pair of black glasses from Operetta’s hands and fell into pace beside her, nibbling her lip in worry. Clawdeen walked on Operetta’s other side, only even going to make sure the boy was okay, and maybe help if they really needed her. Cleo had elected to ‘watch the magazines’ and Ghoulia had rolled her eyes. Ghoulia’s unsteady walk matched with the others on their way to the door that led to the main and most-frequented section of the catacombs.

“Ohhh, honey buuuunch!” Operetta sing-songed into the cave, “I brought your friends!”

“Friends?” Jackson echoed, and lit up when the gang came around the corner. He was at the end of his tether, it taut as he leaned forward. “Frankie! Hi! Oppie gave me a rope! Good thing she doesn’t take after her Dad!” He laughed, and Frankie looked puzzled.

“Ya, good thing,” Clawdeen echoed, “Operetta’s Dad was in jail for like a century, ghoul. I’ll fill you in later.”

“He did his time.” Operetta pulled a knife out of her pocket, flicking the blade out, cutting Jackson free. “There. Your problem now, get him outta here.” Ghoulia groaned, and Operetta shrugged. “He fell down the stairs, and he can’t seem to stand. I thought maybe he hurt his head.”

Frankie looked him over, kneeling in front of him, checking his eyes and touching her hand to his forehead. “No fever, he just seems…out of it and-/really/ friendly.” The ghouls turned to see Jackson touching Frankie’s stitching in quiet fascination. “Jackson?”  
“You’re made out of BODIES.” Jackson blurted, smiling at her, “I think that gives you personality. No.” He narrowed his eyes, appraising her for a moment, “Wait. How did your Dad find body pieces that matched? You’re so pretty.”

“Yeah, he asked me if I liked music, and then he giggled and asked me if my hair grew in ‘cool’ or if I dyed it this way.”

Clawdeen frowned, “I’ve seen my older brother’s act this way a few times. Mom always scolded them, I think he just needs to sleep it off.”

They had all been ignoring Ghoulia, not on purpose but because she was pretty quiet in the big room, but they all jumped and turned at the blaring noise coming from the organ, and Ghoulia was frowning at them. “Ahhhemhugng?”

“That’s true!” Frankie cried, delighted, “What if we turn him into Holt? Maybe Holt knows if this is what your brothers do or if it’s like, a special normie problem.”

“No!” Jackson cried, shoving Frankie and scrambling to his feet, “No, no, no! No Holt! No! I don’t want to! Don’t!” He stumbled for the stairs, but he only made it a few feet before Operetta caught him as he staggered. “I don’t /want/ to!” He cried at her, and Operetta looked uncomfortable. She wasn’t really too good with affection, let alone in front of people. And now she had a three-person audience. “Please, please, no. Nobody asks. They just do. I don’t wanna.” Jackson had latched onto her before she had made a decision, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her shoulder, letting out a little sob.

“Well, I guess…” Frankie said, unsure, “Nobody really asks him if he /wants/ Holt to come out.”

“I never thought about that before.” Clawdeen agreed, “I’d hate it if nobody asked me.”

Operetta felt her blouse dampen from Jackson’s tearful whining, and she grit her teeth, “Somebody turn on some stupid pop before I pop ya’ll over the side of the cliff.” They looked unsure and she snapped, “Turn on some tunes /now/.”

Clawdeen sighed, and a moment later the room filled with an up-beat Casta Fierce song, and Operetta let out her breath when the flames started at Jackson’s feet. Thank God, he was changing, and hopefully Holt would have some insight. To everyone’s surprise he didn’t let go of Operetta as he changed, though she tried to loosen his grip, clawing at his hands, afraid of the fire getting close to her face. It didn’t hurt (her; it hurt him a hell of a lot). Operetta regretted everything almost immediately, because Holt tried to stand and instead fell, but he was too heavy for her alone to hold him up, and he dragged her down to the floor like lead shoes in a lake. A sickening cracking noise filled the air, and the other ghouls came forward to help Operetta up.

“It was just my phone,” Operetta said calmly, “Holt, hon, how are you doin?”

Holt opened his eyes, rubbing them before letting out, “Who let the nerd drink?”

“Drink?” Frankie echoed, “Hydration is key.”

“No, Frankie Fine, no no, alcohol, who gave me-us-him Frankie? Ugh, who gave him a lot.” Holt stumbled to his feet, and he seemed to be handling himself a /little/ better, though he seemed unsteady. “Why-me?”

“We were hopin’ you’d help us.” Clawdeen told Holt, watching as Frankie helped steady him. “Seems whatever happened to Jackson happened to you too.”

There was a pause where Holt played with Frankie’s hair, smiling stupidly down at her. Operetta snapped her fingers, directing the three ghouls and even Holt’ attention to herself. 

“I was singing.”  
“And that wasn’t worth mentioning?” Clawdeen snapped, “Even monsters act weird when you sing, Operetta!”

“I forgot, hon, I can’t keep track of my singing all the time, I am the Phantom of the Opera’s daughter. Key word: /Opera/.”

“Singing, yeah, you got pipes, baby.” Holt mumbled, letting out a little laugh as he swayed. “No wonder I feel so weird, you’ve done this to me before.”

“I thought you’d be impervious,” Operetta said simply, waving her hand. “Gotta be someone, why not a DJ who listens to pop?”

Frankie looked between them, and seemed to be fighting her curiosity that demanded an explanation for something she didn’t need or want to know about. She’d dumped /them/, not the other way around! Fighting her jealousy back she looked over at Clawdeen, gesturing with her head for help. She felt Holt’s breath on her neck stitches and let out a little warning, “I’m electric, I’ll shock you.”

“She ain’t kiddin,” Operetta told him grimly, “I’ve heard she’s knocked planes out of the air.”

“How would you know?” Clawdeen asked, and Operetta only shrugged innocently.

Ghoulia groaned, and Clawdeen rolled her eyes, “Yes, fine.” She tucked under Holt’s free arm, helping hoist him up. “Do you know what room he’s in?”

“254.”

Frankie bit her lip when Operetta answered so quickly, and she only nodded. She missed whatever hit-on Holt was saying now, and they moved towards the stairs. Ghoulia followed them up, shaking her head when they struggled with the blue boy up the stairs. At the very top, she pulled Clawdeen’s icoffin out of her purse and turned the song off. Holt turned into a much less heavy normie again, Jackson sagging easily between the two ghouls. 

“Why didn’t you do that down at the base?” Frankie asked, surprised by the change in weight and how easy it was to hold Jackson as opposed to his more musculature Hyde side. Ghoulia groaned out her answer, looking smug. “I think we’d learn the lesson either way, Ghoulia.” 

Ghoulia only smiled to herself as the three escorted Jackson to his room, to leave him to recover from Operetta’s powerful voice. They decided he’d be fine on his own, and so they cocooned him in bed, put his glasses on his table, and abandoned him there, going down to their waiting Egyptian Princess. 

 

Cleo was painting her nails when they arrived. “So, was it as dismal as she made it seem?”

“The boys are fine, and in bed.” Frankie told her, “Just a little musical mix-up.”

“Well, now that /that’s/ done with, can we focus on what’s really important?” Cleo asked seriously, “What AM I going to wear to this Friday’s dance?!”


End file.
